Mo Dheartháir
by RMBlythe
Summary: "That's when he found it. A note taped to the bedroom door. "Even saints fall. Come join your brother for one last shot. McGinty's at ten." Connor checked his watch. It was 9:51." (One-Shot/ Non-Slash/ T for the their vocabulary)


_**I'm in love with these movies! They are so brilliantly written and perfectly portrayed. I love the McManus boys. On another note, there's been some confusion about the spelling of "McManus"... If anyone cares to clear that up for me, it'd be much appreciated. Forgive me if my Gaelic isn't 100%, I'm trying! Credit for the Saints goes to Troy Duffy, obviously. On another note, don't hate me for this. Read to the end! Enjoy :) **_

**_Mo Dheartháir_**

"Murph? Ye home yet, brother?" Connor McManus called, shutting the front door of their small apartment behind him. He had taken one step into their living room when he noticed fresh blood soaked into the carpet. His heart jumped into his throat. "Murph?" he shouted, praying to God his brother answered him. He followed the blood into the kitchen where it was smeared across the once white tiled floor, pooling in a sickening puddle as it continued to drip from the edge of the counter. And there were bullet holes scattered across the wall leading to the bedroom. "Murph!" he cried, ice racing through his veins. "Murph, where the fuck are ye?"

Connor ran through the small apartment, checking everywhere, slowly feeling his world crumbling down around him. He could hardly breathe. He could look all he wanted, but some freaky twin shit told him his brother was gone. And he was in trouble. That's when he found it. A note taped to the bathroom mirror. "Even saints fall. Come join your brother for one last shot. McGinty's at ten."

Connor checked his watch. It was 9:51.

**_~*Saints*~_**

Not five minutes later, Connor was crashing through the pub's front window. As shards of glass showered down around him, he jumped to his feet, guns in hand, ready to take out the bastards holding his brother captive. But the pub was empty, at least it appeared so. That is until a hoarse voice he'd recognize anywhere called out, "Conn..."

Turning his head, Connor looked upon the face that was more familiar than his own reflection. "Jaysus, Murph," he groaned, his relief tainted by the heartbreak he felt at seeing his twin brother in such an awful state. Murphy was tied to a chair, bound at the ankles and wrists, which had been rubbed raw. His dark brown hair was caked with blood, the scarlet liquid still trickling down the side of his face. One of his eyes was forming a nasty bruise, and there was another gash just beneath his shoulder. Murphy's ribs were likely broken, if the way he was struggling to breathe was any indication.

"What the hell happened?" Connor asked, setting about untying him.

"Don't really know. Bastards came in firin'. Jumped me 'fore I even 'ad time to grab me gun. Bashed me head against the counter an' drug me here." Murphy spat a mouthful of blood on the ground as he finished his tale.

Connor's hands were shaking so badly, he couldn't untie the knots around his brother's wrists. "Stupid, fuckin' rope," he growled. He needed to get himself under control. He needed a plan. But his thoughts were jumbled. It was never Murphy whom he had to save. Granted, Murphy's life was always in danger. So was his, but that was of little consequence.

When they first came to America, he'd promised Ma he'd watch out for his twin, and not let any harm come to him. When they became the Saints, he'd sworn the same thing to himself. Well, he'd not be breaking that vow any time soon. Thanking God he'd brought Murphy's Rambo knife, he cut the ropes at his brother's wrists and ankles. "So, where are these fuckers?" Connor asked as Murphy gingerly rolled his wrists, testing the damage.

"Don't know. Been here all by me lonesome for a while now."

Offering his hand, Connor helped him to stand, but Murphy cried out in pain and nearly crumpled to the ground. "Fuck," he hissed, clutching his thigh, a bullet lodged deep into muscle and bone. "Go, Connor," he said, lamely attempting to shove his brother away from him. "Get Smecker an' come back. I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Like hell ye are," Connor answered, bending his knees to hoist his brother's body over his shoulder, just as Murphy had done for him nearly a decade ago. There was no way he was leaving him here.

They'd just about reached the door when they heard a voice. "How very sweet. But, I'm afraid only one saint leaves here tonight."

Shots were fired seemingly from out of nowhere. Connor spun around, trying to shield Murphy as best he could while firing his own weapon into the confusion. "Put me down!" Murphy shouted over the chaos.

Connor shook his head. His brother was in no condition to fight. He was already shot and beat to hell, and he'd lost far too much blood.

With his good leg, Murphy kicked Connor in the side. "I said put me down, ye bastard!" He jerked his body so Connor nearly dropped him, which would only end up causing more damage.

Reluctantly, Connor set Murphy on his feet, once again shielding him with his own body until he gained his balance. Murphy then took one of Connor's guns and began firing furiously. They made their way to a table, quickly knocking it over and taking cover behind it. Connor saw one gunman come through the backdoor, taking him out before he could even step foot in the pub. "This is fuckin' ridiculous," Murphy coughed, leaning against the table. "I can't see anythin'. How the hell are we supposed to end this if we can't fuckin' see 'em?"

Connor glanced at his brother. Pale as a ghost. He tightened his grip on his gun. "Stay here," he told Murphy, who looked as though he was about to protest. He also looked about ready to pass out. "I mean it," Connor ordered. "Stay. Here."

Keeping low to the ground, Connor abandoned the safety of their cover and headed for the bar where most of the shots seemed to be coming from. A foolish move? Of course. A wiser man, even a halfway sane man, would never have willingly put himself in so much danger. But Connor McManus gave little thought to his own well being. His only thought was of Murphy, the bullet wound in his leg and the still bleeding gash on his head. He had to get him out of here. He had to get him home, or even to a hospital, no matter how much he knew his brother would protest that option. By now, Connor was beneath the bar, between the stools and the wall he usually kicked with his boots. From his vantage point, he could see a shooter in a booth, and was quick to put a bullet through his head. There was another hiding in the closet near by, but before Connor could even pull the trigger, the man was flat on the floor. He looked to see Murphy's dark head duck back down behind the table. His brother was one stubborn little shit, that's for sure. Connor took a few deep breaths, making sure his gun was fully loaded. Jumping up, he came face to face with four shooters.

Four clean hits, and they were out. All Connor had to show for it was a grazed shoulder. It was too easy, and the hair standing up on the back of his neck told him it wasn't over yet.

"Well done, Mr. McManus," that voice from before crooned again. Connor slowly turned to see The Roman holding Murphy's weak body upright, a gun pressed against his twin's temple. Rage burning in his chest, Connor lunged forward. "Ah-ah," The Roman chided, cocking the hammer of his pistol. "Let's not get excited, Mr. McManus."

Connor froze, chest heaving for air as his lungs constricted at the sight before him. He began muttering prayers under his breath, a steady string of random lines and phrases that he'd had memorized since childhood. He called upon them now, any of them, that might help save his brother. His trigger finger itched, and he hardly heard what the old man was saying. "... Work for me. Take your father's place, and save your brother. The choice is yours."

Connor looked to his twin. He was telling him no, not to take the deal. But what choice did he have with that gun ready to send a bullet blasting through Murphy's skull? "I'll do it," Connor said, dropping his gun on the bar. "I'll do it, just... just let 'em go. Please. Let 'em go."

"Good," The Roman smiled. "Say goodbye to your brother, Mr. McManus."

Murphy was shoved forward, and Connor moved just in time to catch him in his arms. Murphy gripped Connor's shoulders to stay on his feet. "Shoot the bastard," he barked hoarsely into his brother's shirt. "Now, Connor!"

The fairer haired McManus didn't need to be told twice. Snatching his gun up, he fired, killing the man who'd betrayed Da. It was then, Murphy finally collapsed in his brother's arms.

"Murph!" Connor cried, panic threatening to overwhelm him. A hospital. Murphy needed a hospital. "Hang on, Murph. We're gonna get ya some help, yeah? Just..."

Murphy coughed, gagging on the blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth. "It's too late, brother," he groaned. "He got me 'fore ye even made yer deal."

"What d'ye mean? Yer gonna be fine."

The corner of Murphy's mouth hitched in a well worn smirk. "Bullet in me back says different."

Heart threatening to beat right out of his chest, Connor was suddenly aware of the warm liquid that had soaked through his brother's shirt and coated his own hand. Connor lowered them both to the ground, suddenly finding it an impossible task to remain standing. His face paled, and he stared blankly at the opposite wall, unable to believe that his very worst nightmare was coming true.

"Conn?" Murphy coughed again, bringing more blood to his lips.

Connor just shook his head. "No. No, we can fix this. Ye'll be alright. We'll get ya fixed up, and after a couple days o' rest..."

With all the strength he could muster, Murphy shouted, "Connor!"

His brother stopped rambling and finally looked down at him, tears cascading down his cheeks. "I promised," Connor whispered brokenly. "I promised to protect ya, an' now... Ye can't. Ye can't leave me alone, Brother. *****Deartháir, le do thoil..."

Murphy wanted to poke fun at Connor for being such a sissy and crying like a fucking girl, but his own tears prevented him from doing so. "Ye'll never be alone," he reassured him. "An' don't go blamin' yerself for this. Promise me that, Conn."

Connor shook his head, sobs wracking his frame.

"Fuckin' promise me!"

"Alright!" Connor nearly shouted. "I promise. I promise, Murph."

Murphy smirked, but it faded just as quickly when his own blue eyes met the identical ocean colored stare of his brother. "Da an' I will be waitin' ya."

A harsh cry ripped from Connor's throat as he hugged Murphy tighter to him, tears falling into the dark hair tucked beneath his chin.

"Conn," Murphy whispered. "Da was right. It' s beautiful, Conn..."

And Connor felt his brother's soul leave his body.

"No!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "No, Murph! No! Please God, no! Please don't take him! Murph! Murph!"

**_~*Saints*~_**

Connor awoke in a mess of sheets, beads of sweat dancing across his bare torso and across his forehead. He was back in the apartment. In his bed. In their room. "Praise be to God," he gasped, his heart beating wildly. With a shaking hand, he scrubbed the tears from his eyes, the dream still lingering, and looked to Murphy's side of the room.

Only to find it empty.

Connor's blood ran cold. Where was Murphy? Was it just a dream, or had it really happened? He sat up, ignoring the rush of dizziness that assaulted him. "Murph?" he called out, nearly hyperventilating now. "Murph!"

There was no answer.

Was it a dream? It had felt so real. Had it been? Was Murphy... Was his brother really... dead?

"Murph!" Connor screamed, sending himself into a coughing fit.

Footsteps pounded across the floor, Murphy McManus himself hurrying into the bedroom. "Easy, Brother! Easy," the familiar, gruff voice soothed. "I'm here. I'm right here, Connor." Sitting in the chair where he'd spent most of the last week, Murphy placed his hands on his brother's trembling shoulders, guiding him to lie back against the pillow once more. "******Tá sé ceart go leor anois. Tá sé ceart go leor."

Once Connor could breathe again, he looked up into the reflection of his own blue eyes. "Murph?" he choked.

"Aye," Murphy sighed, relieved his brother had finally come back to his senses after a week of being trapped in a fever induced delirium. He ruffled Connor's hair. "Welcome back to the land o' the livin'."

Connor hauled himself back up into a sitting position and wrapped Murphy in a fierce embrace. "I could say the fuckin' same to you."

*_"Brother, please..."_

**_"It's alright now. It's alright."_


End file.
